


Tins Without Labels

by Wooingsan



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Barebacking, Body Worship, Boys In Love, Choi Byeol deserves her own tag, Domestic Woosan, Everything is soft, Fluff, Gentle Sex, M/M, Mutual Pining, Riding, Rimming, Snowed In, Soft Choi San, Soft Jung Wooyoung, lots of kisses, soft snowy smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:55:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29722431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wooingsan/pseuds/Wooingsan
Summary: San comes out of the hallway still pulling on a chunky cream knit sweater, giving Wooyoung full viewing pleasure of his toned abdomen, his belly button, the deep angled vee where hips dip low under jeans. San in jeans is a weapon. It’s the way they sit so perfectly, the smallest slip of air between their waistline and San’s golden skin, just enough for Wooyoung to imagine sliding his thumb in the gap and tracing lines with his nail.“They’re not coming.”Wooyoung has to rip his gaze away from San’s hips. “What happened?”ORWoosan prepare for a mountainside weekend with friends. An early bout of weather keeps them snowed in alone.
Relationships: Choi San/Jung Wooyoung
Comments: 16
Kudos: 191





	Tins Without Labels

**Author's Note:**

> Please enjoy some soft, snowy smut!

Last year, San’s architecture firm entered a national competition to design an environmentally friendly vacation home. Exclusively using recycled materials and renewable energy sources, they decided to build in the mountains to capitalize on the snow and natural springs. When San’s team placed at the top of the competition, his firm generously raffled off the build to one of the designers as congratulations and thanks for increasing their prestige. 

That’s how San came to own a gorgeous, eco-friendly cabin on the side of a mountain. 

That’s how Wooyoung, months later, is standing at the mosaic glass countertop mixing up a bowl of cake batter.

It’s basically Wooyoung’s dream. All on one level, the cabin centers one massive, open den, the kind that boasts walls of windows which come to a point and overlook the sloping valley below. The U-shaped kitchen lives in one corner with the dining table in the other, all slightly lofted above the rest of the den. Wooyoung loves this kitchen. It’s much better than his own tiny apartment. It’s got all the right appliances and good lighting and an eat-in bar, perfect when San wants to observe Wooyoung in his element. It’s a kitchen to soothe the soul. Aside from the main room there’s a hallway in the back which splits off to bedrooms and bathrooms on either end, plenty for a weekend getaway with family or friends.

That’s why San finally decided to take a few days off and get their old friend group back together. It would be the first time since they all decided to pursue their own dreams, since they got married with real jobs and called Wooyoung every spring.

Tax accounting isn’t Wooyoung’s dream. It’s drier than Yeosang’s humor but provides an ultra-stable 9-to-5 with ample time off and next to no long hours most months of the year, leaving him plentiful opportunities to practice his culinary skills alongside TV reruns of Iron Chef and the Great British Bake Off. It’s worth it when he has the time to bring copious creations over to San, half because he’s a class-act perfectionist who craves feedback like dopamine, and half as an excuse to see San. And since San’s job as an architect has him working abnormal hours, Wooyoung feels it’s his civic duty to be the one to make sure San eats. Sometimes he gets a little over-zealous, stuffing San’s mouth until he can barely chew, too distracted by the feeling of jaw under fingertips, of lips around spoon. 

Sometimes when Wooyoung stays late he sleeps over. Sometimes they do more than sleep. 

Most times. 

(Every time)

Wooyoung’s at the cabin early to help San set up. It’s just him and San and Byeol, all three preparing for the weekend of guests in their own way. San would rather burn his own house down than let a service petsit Byeol, so the Siamese came with. Wooyoung’s watched her before when San’s gone out of town. They get along alright but they’re both petty, both trying to shove the other off San’s lap at their earliest convenience. Wooyoung usually wins, but he’s not the one who gets to sleep on San’s chest every night. It’s a point of contention.

Like the rest of them, Wooyoung and San are friends from college. They fooled around then and they fool around now. But it doesn’t always feel like fooling. It feels more like mutually exclusive, making each other feel good when they’re sad or happy or just because they can. It feels like something that should be labelled, but somewhere along the way the label got pulled off, like the one on the tin of cocoa powder Wooyoung’s scooping into the cake batter. Just because it’s missing a label doesn’t mean Wooyoung doesn’t know what it is. He knows. 

They both do. 

Just then, San’s phone rings in one of the bedrooms down the hall. He’d gone to change into more formal attire because the guests would arrive in just a few hours. Wooyoung hears a muffled “Hello?” before periods of quiet and mixed mumbles, too low to be heard over the constant whir of the preheating oven. Wooyoung normally wouldn’t try to eavesdrop, but the cell service up here is spotty and there aren’t too many people who’d try to contact San during his vacation. 

He’s cut off from pondering when San comes out of the hallway still pulling on a chunky cream knit sweater, giving Wooyoung full viewing pleasure of his toned abdomen, his belly button, the deep angled vee where hips dip low under jeans. San in jeans is a weapon. It’s the way they sit so perfectly, the smallest slip of air between their waistline and San’s golden skin, just enough for Wooyoung to imagine sliding his thumb in the gap, tracing lines with his nail. 

“They’re not coming.”

Wooyoung has to rip his gaze away from San’s hips. “What happened?”

“They barely got out of the city before the snow hit, and Seonghwa said even with the four wheel drive they were sliding. They didn’t want to risk the extra hour into the mountains because they didn’t know how icy the roads up would be.”

He glances out the window. “I thought the snow wasn’t supposed to start until tonight?”

“It wasn’t.”

They’d aimed for a snowed in weekend. It would be the perfect excuse so workaholic Hongjoong couldn’t get called into the office, so Mingi could try out the snowshoes he’d purchased but never had the chance to wear. The weather hasn’t reached the cabin yet though, just a few flurries falling against the mid-afternoon sun.

_Snowed in for the weekend._

Wooyoung looks at the spread of finished hors d'oeuvres already laid out on the table. 

“Told you you should’ve let me eat some earlier,” San teases. A few hours ago, Wooyoung had smacked San’s hands with a wooden spoon when he tried to steal a mini quiche. He’s an accountant - he can’t put up with theft. 

Wooyoung returns to his batter. He’s not going to give up on his cake, regardless of who else is eating it. That would be a crime. 

“Then I guess it’s just you and me.”

“I guess so,” San hums.

_Alone. ___

____

____

The bell on Byeol’s collar tinkles when San picks her up. Sneaking another glance, Wooyoung finds him nuzzling Byeol’s ears with his lips. He’s a good dad, if a bit overprotective. But Wooyoung likes him that way. 

When the batter’s ready, when it’s been carefully poured into two wide flat rounds on the middle rack in the oven, he sets the timer for an hour, heat low.

Just enough time to get into San’s pants.

He’s standing at the point of the window, an outline against the sugar white drifts across the wraparound deck and the valley below, occasionally studded by balsam. He’s cooing at Byeol snuggled up against his chest. Wooyoung comes up behind him slow, quiet, to slip his arms around San’s waist. Locking his chin over San’s shoulder, he uses one hand to stroke Byeol’s dangling leg. She doesn’t mind.

“What are you doing?” San asks, voice delicate as the freshly fallen snow. 

“Petting Byeol.” 

“Mm.”

Wooyoung decides to act on his vision. He sneaks the hand not stroking fur down to San’s waistline, fingers burrowing under the knit and sliding through one of his belt loops. San’s breath hitches, and a sideways glance shows his lids half lowered. Testing the waters, Wooyoung presses the pad of his thumb to San’s hipbone. 

When San turns his face they’re so close that his lips graze Wooyoung’s cheek. Warm exhales on eyelashes make them flutter closed. 

“Still petting Byeol?”

“Yeah,” Wooyoung breathes. 

The hand on her fur offers one pet, two, before he’s focused on San’s taught skin again.

Wooyoung’s nose meets San’s, caressing until he finds just the right angle to press the tip of his tongue into the corner of San’s mouth, to trace it along the perfect cupid’s bow. Oh, how he likes that bow. They’re acquainted, but never well enough. He’d happily host gatherings with too much food and too few guests just to get that upper lip into the room, into his mouth. He’d invite it to trivia, to play spin the bottle, to Thursday night speed dating just for one glass of wine. That bow does things to him.

With his teeth, Wooyoung knicks it appreciatively. 

San purrs. Slow, then.

Using kisses as a distraction, Wooyoung slips his thumb beneath San’s jeans. He slides the flat of his knuckle against skin before pivoting to draw gentle, short lines with the tip of his nail.

It’s San’s turn to take lip between teeth, to bite.

“San-ah,” Wooyoung manages.

“Hmm?” 

“I want to pet you too.” 

“Byeol might get jealous.” 

“She won’t mind. We had a chat a few weeks ago - it was a difficult conversation, but she said she’ll share.” 

“Is that so?” 

“Yes,” Wooyoung hushes, “but only with me.” 

San laughs airly. “That sounds like her. She’s very possessive.” 

“She is.”

San kisses him, wherever he can reach as Wooyoung continues worshipping his cupid’s bow. “Whatever my baby wants, then.”

They always do this. Speaking in codes, through others, skirting around owning their desires. But that’s a lie. It’s only him, only him lacking the courage to confess to San truly and explicitly, but San knows. He knows he does. So he indulges Wooyoung’s play, his banter, his insecurities. Because he’s patient. Because he’s kind.

“You’re bold today, doing this in front of the windows,” San hums, voice low.

“Who will see?” 

“Byeol, and the wildlife.” 

“Then they should consider themselves lucky.”

Wooyoung forgoes Byeol’s warm fur to unbutton San’s jean’s instead. Working without sight is an art form, one of many they’ve perfected. Wooyoung parts with his favorite party guest, encouraging it to face the window again as he noses along San’s jawline. Then he focuses on the zipper, listening for the grind of metallic teeth. 

San’s a boxer briefs man. Wooyoung’s seen them while undressing in college locker rooms, stacked in San’s laundry bin, on the floor or the coffee table or bunched under his balls when Wooyoung pulls him out in the back row of the movie theatre with fingers oiled with popcorn butter, or wherever he instigates. Today he’s wearing cotton, Wooyoung decides, running his fingers along the elastic band. He isn’t tall enough to see over San’s shoulder, especially with a cat to block the view, but he can feel. As he drags his palm along the fabric, along warm, hardening cock, he brushes his lips along the column of San’s neck in tandem. Together, palm and lips, they slide back up, then down, until lips trade out for wet tongue and palm becomes loosely gripped fingers. He repeats until he finds the small tacky patch at the place he knows the tip of San’s dick to be. The first drop of many. 

Wooyoung always waits for the first gush of precum. He’s trying to perfect San’s science, the recipe to produce San’s frosting-sweet orgasm. When Wooyoung’s fingers dip beneath his underwear, San shudders, still staring out at the snow. Wooyoung wonders if he’s seeing anything or if his vision is as glazed as the cake will be. 

San’s a sensitive man. Sometimes whiny, sometimes loud. Very physically responsive. Very good.

But, San would say the same about him.

There’s a bell somewhere. It could be Byeol’s collar or the ping of a phone or a temple in the valley, who knows. Regardless, it’s enough to call San back to himself. 

San lowers Byeol to the floor and grabs Wooyoung instead, swiftly twisting them around until Wooyoung’s the one pressed up against the window, his palms leaving hot, foggy prints on the glass. It’s a well-practiced move.

San’s always been more direct, ready to get what he wants, but only after Wooyoung initiates. He’s quick to copy Wooyoung, drawing down the zipper and kissing Wooyoung’s neck, but he’s a little less reserved. He pushes Wooyoung into the glass to capitalize on the cold, on the way the temperature and the love bites make Wooyoung shiver, make him crave the warm hand of protection that comes down to cup his arousal, protecting it from the ice. Everything feels elevated, the cold touches colder, the hot ones more intense. It has Wooyoung slipping - not the ice skating kind but the kind reserved for San, the kind that makes him breathe heavier. He rolls his hips, humping San’s palm.

Four rolls, five, before San throws Wooyoung over his shoulder. Strewn over San’s arm, he remembers the cake. “How much time is left on the oven, San-ah?” 

“Enough,” he replies, lowering Wooyoung down on the edge of the couch. 

When his ass hits the pleather he reaches back up for San, pulling him into proper kisses, wet ones, while San tries to get him undressed. San laughs when he has to break the string of kisses in order to get Wooyoung’s sweater off, to drop Wooyoung’s jeans. The red lace of Wooyoung’s boyshorts makes him pause in appreciation. San’s a sucker for lace, or at least the way Wooyoung’s dick looks cocked underneath it. He gives Wooyoung’s plump cheeks a complimentary squeeze before dropping the lace too. 

Dimly, Wooyoung recalls the couch fabric is also recycled, made from woven leaves or plastic bottles or something equally provocative. It feels like butter under his thighs as San slides him, ass naked, along the cushions. 

There’s a fluffy beige quilt on the back of the couch that Wooyoung had lain decoratively to give the atmosphere a hint of cozy. As San unfurls it to drape overtop Wooyoung’s pebbled nipples and abdomen and upper thighs, he thinks it was the right decision. Scooting down until Wooyoung’s thighs cup his face, San throws Wooyoung’s legs over his shoulders. He dots them with sultry kisses, parting only long enough to tighten the blanket around Wooyoung’s nakedness, protecting him from the mountain cold. Then he lifts the edge.

San likes looking at him. Likes looking at the places that are pink or peach or tan. For a long time, Wooyoung was embarrassed by it. He used to hide his face under the covers when San spent too long admiring him, admiring the things he can’t change about himself. But over time Wooyoung learned that the longer San spent looking at something, the more love he would give it. The more he’d lick it or touch it or fuck it. So now Wooyoung waits, twirling his fingers in the top of San’s hair. 

“Beautiful, baby.”

When San’s there, when he’s nose to nose with Wooyoung’s softest places, his expression changes. No matter how it goes, soft or rough or somewhere in between, there’s always a moment where Wooyoung thinks San might just eat him alive, like there’s nothing he craves more than being with him, in him, totally, utterly devoted to Wooyoung’s pleasure. Like, if Wooyoung asked, he’d marry him on the spot. 

Wooyoung’s barely propped up against the pillows, just enough to watch San’s eyes flash with it, that moment, that feeling of catch and release. Then he dives in, lips first.

Yes, he and that cupid’s bow are intimately acquainted. 

While he’s still in the process of perfecting San’s science, San has already conquered his. If he wanted, San could probably pull three, maybe four orgasms out of him in one sitting. He’s done it before.

San continues to decorate him with kisses. He places them to his shaft, his perineum, the place where thighs meet asscheek. When he makes it back to puckered rim, Wooyoung slides a hand into San’s hair to keep him there. San smiles against him, breath fluttering like a chuckle. 

Wooyoung spreads his legs further. He can ask for what he wants, too.

The blanket slides up his hips. San wraps one hand around Wooyoung’s cock and weighs his balls in the other. Then he begins to lick. The tandem act of being eaten out and fondled has Wooyoung moaning. San’s attentive, that way, never forgetting how important massaging the balls is to Wooyoung’s satisfaction. He rolls them between his fingers as he tongues, sucks, nips at Wooyoung. And when that’s not enough he shifts Wooyoung’s hips, finding a better angle to slip his tongue through the puckers, getting deeper, feeling longer. Wooyoung whines.

San is so good at this. How’d he get so good at this? 

Maybe it was all the years of learning Wooyoung’s body, of tongues on teeth, and tongue in cheek. Maybe it was all the years of subtle caresses turned subtle confesses. Maybe he’s only good because they’re in love. 

San’s prepping usually pulls the first of Wooyoung’s orgasms out of him. This time is no different. By the time he’s three slick fingers in, courtesy of the lube kept beneath the couch, Wooyoung’s already releasing. San catches it in his palm. 

They always fight about who actually sets the tone of their romps. San believes it’s Wooyoung, based on how sweet or bratty he is that day. Wooyoung disagrees. He’s found a pattern with San; if San licks up Wooyoung’s first round of cum, because he always gives Wooyoung the first orgasm, then San’s going to be sweet, soft. But if he presents it to Wooyoung to eat instead, he’s planning on being rough. 

So when San begins kitten licking between his own fingers, Wooyoung melts into the couch with a moan. When San’s soft he gives praises, kisses, and lots of cozy cuddles that sound perfect for the snow. 

Wooyoung rides him. It’s a mutual favorite because of the visuals, because of watching one another’s bodies while so intimately connected. 

He pulls a blanket up to cover Wooyoung’s back and shoulders for warmth, always prioritizing his comfort. But when it keeps falling, San huffs and hitches it up over Wooyoung’s head like a cape. Wooyoung laughs, feeling ridiculous. But it leaves San totally exposed below him, not a speck of lint to interrupt his perfect face, perfect body. If San in jeans is a weapon, San naked is the war.

Wooyoung runs a hand over San’s ribs. "Are you cold?" 

"No baby, you're keeping me warm." 

He licks lips grown cold in their time away from San’s, all the blood flooding the dick that bounce-bounce-bounces against his stomach and San’s. It’s erotic, this way, watching San watch him. It makes Wooyoung feel pretty. Like, as an architect, maybe San appreciates the natural angles of his small waist, smooth stomach, rounded thighs. Appreciates the curved edges of his nipples, the ones he tweaks sometimes to watch them stiffen and bud. Appreciates Wooyoung’s face, the contorting expressions, the ones he makes when San thrusts up, when he hears San moan. Like, if he takes his eyes away he’ll miss the moment Wooyoung tips his head back on a whimper, the moment he takes each stilted breath. 

While visually appealing, Wooyoung misses San’s comforting touch. He places San’s hands on his hips, coaxing them up and around, seeking skin on skin. Wooyoung laces their fingers together, holding tight. 

San pauses him for kisses. Kisses and whispers, “You’re so good."

But then the blanket falls and San huffs, giving up, bundling Wooyoung in it and flipping them around. For a second, just one second, San’s forced to pull out. It’s too many. Locking his feet around San’s hips, Wooyoung presses him back inside as quickly as possible. San makes him feel good and safe and full. Wooyoung loves it. Loves him. 

There’s another bell, but this time it’s the oven.

Wooyoung gasps, fingers clawing into San’s back. “The cake!” 

San continues fucking into him without stutter. 

“San-ah! The cake!” 

“Shh, the cake will be fine baby.” 

“No- _ah_ -it’s sensitive, I know the e-exact time it needs, and-” 

“How about the time _we_ need, the time it takes to get another orgasm out of you?” 

“San-ah, San-ah, it’s going to burn-” 

“Baby, forget the cake, no one’s-” 

Affronted, Wooyoung gasps, knees coming up to block the next rock of San’s hips. “How dare you. Either you go take it out of the oven right now or I’m getting off this couch and leaving you unfinished.” Pained, San stares down at him. “Hurry up.” 

San pulls out with a groan, lifting off the couch and starting around the corner, lube-glossy dick bouncing through the air.

Wooyoung grabs his wrist. “Wait!” 

San turns. “What now?” 

Quickly propping himself up on one elbow, Wooyoung uses his grip on San’s wrist to pull him down, down until he can press the gentlest kiss to his lips. “Thank you.” 

San’s stunned. 

Wooyoung giggles and pushes him away again. “Cake.” 

“Cake,” San parrots as he heads into the kitchen. 

Wooyoung watches over the back of the couch, admiring San’s nakedness walking around the den. He drops down again only after confirming San has carefully set the rounds on the cooling rack and turned off the oven.

Then San’s back between his legs. They open easily. 

Sometime between the cake and the final thrust it begins to snow. Not the flurries, but the fat flakes, the heavy ones, the kind that stick to bannisters and railings and hoods of uncovered cars. The kind that label them thoroughly trapped, snowed in with nothing but too many appetizers and hot pieces of ass to satiate one another, with cake for dessert. Wooyoung can almost feel the flakes melt on his skin, but it’s San. San’s saliva, his sweat, the first rope of his cum. He could’ve cum inside, usually does, but he must be feeling showy, shooting it up to Wooyoung’s collarbones. “Show off.” 

San grins, licking it up before swallowing Wooyoung’s dick whole, pulling off just in time for Wooyoung to release, too. And when his mark doesn’t make it half as far, Wooyoung whines. “Asshole. This is my second time, you know it’s not going to be the same!”

To shut him up, San kisses him.

**\-----**

While they were entangled, Byeol was up on the table eating the hors d’oeuvers. Her way of getting back at Wooyoung, maybe. 

After San checked to make sure they were safe enough for cat consumption, he scolded her with a pout. About as effective as when he tries to scold Wooyoung. They both roll their eyes.

**\-----**

In the morning, Wooyoung sits atop the mosaiced counter in only his silk robe and tall socks watching eggs fry in a pan. The snow is piled halfway up the windows, completely covering the handrails of the wraparound porch. Wooyoung wonders if a long weekend won’t be sufficient time for the roads to be cleared, especially up here. Maybe they’ll both have to take a few more days off. They bought food for eight so he knows they’ll be fine. And since the cabin runs on alternative power and filters its own water, there’s nothing to worry about. They can get stuck here for a month, actually. Or a lifetime, perhaps. 

Wooyoung would like that. 

When San emerges from the hallway he shuffles straight for the space between Wooyoung’s thighs. Hugging his waist, he leans against Wooyoung’s chest with a sleepy hum. Wooyoung kisses his hair. 

After morning kisses and eggs, Wooyoung considers the cake. It slept on a glass stand overnight, layers stacked between parchment paper. It looks good, would look even better with frosting. He could add some piped trees, coconut snow. He considers. 

But when San comes up behind him, soft and sweet and clingy, Wooyoung says the hell with perfection and breaks a chunk off, pressing it onto San’s tongue. He watches the way his eyes close to sample, the way Wooyoung likes, before opening again. His expression tells Wooyoung everything he needs to know. It’s good. Really good. The kind of good that makes San back him against the countertop and ask for another, the kind that makes his hands friskier, slipping between folds.

The kind that, three samples more, has San leading Wooyoung back to bed.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Twitter [@Wooingsan](https://twitter.com/wooingsan)


End file.
